


it shouldn't have to be like this

by kivancalcite



Category: Playmobil: The Movie (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Burns, Drugs, Exhaustion, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, He's not having a good time, Heavy Angst, Insomnia, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Knives, Minor Character Death, Murder, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma, Scarification, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation, Strangulation, Swearing, Sweat, Trauma, a dude gets shot in the head and there's a brief description of the...bloody results, being on a job like this is going to involve trauma i am doing this, don't forget the brain stuff, he's...had more than his fair share of attacks, rex falls out of bed sorta violently??, wrote this for the first day of whumptober 2019 so...yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28805472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivancalcite/pseuds/kivancalcite
Summary: A couple of pieces I did for Whumptober 2019 where I felt like addressing Rex's potential trauma from a job like this and how it seeps into his everyday life. This man would have more than enough sleep disturbances to last a lifetime from what his job could entail since as much as he tries to stay awake, he has to sleep sometime, right? And these nightmares can be particularly messy besides...
Kudos: 2





	1. living nightmares

It had been another bad night.

He was used to it, unfortunately. One night he was so exhausted that he just _had_ to sleep, because for long enough he had gone without it that his body was telling him otherwise.

He didn’t do much when he got in to his room, in fact, he didn’t even change. As far as he was aware, he’d managed to shrug off his jacket and take off his glasses (both of which he dropped straight on the floor), walk over to his bed and collapse face first into the pillow.

He knew he’d eventually have to sleep. He knew what would happen when he did. Some nights could fortunately be better than others, maybe more fuzzy, with others waking him up in the middle of the night before he was relaxed enough to sleep again. Sometimes he was able to sleep through until morning without too much hassle.

He hated the unpredictability of it, and was another thing that caused a whole load of stress.

This time, he was out on the street at night, having been confronted by another enemy of his. He was one of the more nasty characters he’d come across, the head of an organisation that reigned with fear over the city, which involved public killings by people who he believed were a threat. Rex was no exception. He was with a work partner - Ryan, he still remembered his name - when they got caught, of which he had been attempting to drive back home, but this man and his cronies had managed to block off the street they were on.

He approached him, warily, Ryan on his right, albeit a little further behind.

“I see you’ve brought company,” he sneered, “how nice.”

He tried to keep up his usual appearance, out of nerves more than anything else. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you, so…I guess I have.”

“Cut the bullshit, Rex. I know your act. You know mine, and why I’m here.” The man snapped.

“Look, I can guarantee you, we don’t have any quarrel with you. You control the whole city.”

“I may do, but that still makes people like you a threat. You know that we know enough about how you work, and it’d be better if you weren’t around.”

The man pulled a gun on him momentarily, but in the several seconds that followed, it was like time had slowed to a halt. He immediately changed his mind, and fired.

Ryan, who had been just behind him this whole time, went flying backwards, blood and matter spraying from his head. The decision had been so fast, Rex had stood there frozen, before turning around to see the dead body of Ryan lying sprawled on the pavement, blood puddled around his head. Even then, it took a moment to register that his own work partner has just been _murdered_. He felt sick, his breath paused in his throat, heart racing.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he said, voice low in his throat, turning to face the man with a cold look on his face, “none of this is _necessary_!”

“Oh, but it was,” he grinned, sadism extremely evident in his voice, “since you people never _learn_.”

Another shot was fired, this time at him. It almost took the wind out of him, the bullet hitting him below his right shoulder blade. He could just about stand there with eyes glazed, hands shakily reaching up to just underneath his jacket and coming away with his blood, almost mesmerised by the sight of it before the shock wore off and he crumpled to his knees. He thought he was going to be sick.

The man took a leisurely walk towards him, pocketing his gun with the most casual indifference. “I changed my mind,” he said, with a mock shrug, “you’ve been a particular nuisance, Rex, and I’ll take particular pleasure knowing you bleed to death in these streets right next to your friend here. And know how much you _couldn’t save him_.”

Rex felt the sudden rough grab of his collar, choking on the sensation, besides trying to breathe with a bullet wound in his chest. The man had leant down enough as he held onto his collar so he could look at his face, underneath what was visibly a messy mop of black hair. Rex’s breathing hitched in his throat, eyes unfocused, but still managing to see a wicked white grin of teeth and sharp blue eyes.

“Oh, and before you think otherwise,” he said, shoving Rex backwards as if he was a ragdoll onto the cold pavement behind him, “try escaping with this.”

He barely had time to think before another bullet was fired into his right leg as he sat up, the hot pain shooting up it like lightning. He was barely able to restrain a scream before he slammed his hand violently down on his bedside table, breathing rapidly as he suddenly realised he had fallen out of bed and woke up in the process.

“Oh, fuck!” he cried, realising just how aggressively he had accidentally slammed his hand onto the wood of the table in his attempt to grab onto something solid for support.

He was lying askew on the floor next to his bed, head hitting the bedside table in an awkward way with his neck bent and facing the ceiling, body twisted around with one painful hand still on the table and the other lying upright across from him. He couldn’t breathe properly, feeling what felt like residual effects of what happened in the dream. 

That night had been such a blur. He still wondered how he had managed to survive, being left for dead on the street. He had to effectively drag his right leg behind him in every attempt to limp towards his car because any weight on it hurt like hell. He couldn’t remember what happened to the body of his friend, vaguely recalling taking it with him in the boot somewhere (because it didn’t feel decent of him to just leave it there), blank stare and shaking hands as he dragged it over to put it in. 

This was honestly why his dreams felt like memories and vice versa. It was hazy - not like he couldn’t remember, he knew to an extent how things like this had panned out, all these feelings and parts of his memory coming out in dreams. It made sense he couldn’t always sleep at night.

He brought his other hand and scrabbled up at the beside table for support and dragging his feet up before feeling able to force himself back up first shakily by the latter first and then through his hands. He managed to lift himself up before leaning on the side of his bed, groaning. He forgot how much everything just _hurt_. Even with that he was finding it hard to breathe, and momentarily he put his hand, itself shaking like before, just below his right shoulder. It was fine. No wound, no blood. It was just a dream. This kind of thing just happened. 

He looked at his digital clock on the table. 2:14, in neon green numbers. He wiped his jittery hands up across his face and up through his messy hair and sighed heavily, shoulders going slack.

Just a dream. Not real. 

But the stuff in them was every bit as real to him, and this was no exception. He knew it’d be another one of those long nights in the dark and quiet, only hearing the sound of his uneven breathing and quickened heartbeat. 

_He wished he wasn’t so used to this._


	2. only human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, Rex realises he's not going to sleep easily thanks to his earlier nightmare, and hopes that sleeping pills can resign him to a decent night's sleep. His thoughts unfortunately result in a long pause for him, thinking far too much about stuff he'd rather be forgetting.

It was a long night. Rex had not moved for a while from the side of his bed, emotionally and physically exhausted, but his body seemed to not be able to relax. Now that he was awake, he didn’t seem to be able to sleep again. His thoughts were racing, the nightmare absolutely fresh in his mind. He stared down at the floor, the bright neon light of his alarm clock the only thing illuminating his face.

He’d dealt enough with this. _All part of the job_ , he thought. The emotional stress was unavoidable, and it seeped all too well into his physical state. The things he’d seen and experienced should’ve at least been enough to kill him, albeit slowly. There was far too much to comprehend, and now even the simplicity of rest seemed far out of reach. He’d give so much to get a full, uninterrupted sleep until morning. No wonder his friends were so concerned, seeing him passed out in his car, face against the driver’s wheel, multiple times. 

He couldn’t bear to have them worry about him like this.

After what seemed like forever, he decided to get up. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep like this. He sluggishly put his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly, before stretching. Everything just _ached_. He pushed himself up from the side of the bed, and stumbled towards the bathroom. It was enough that it was dark without feeling so disorientated and so damn _exhausted_.

He nudged the door further ajar - he never really closed it despite himself - and reached around to find the light cord. He groaned - it should be simple, but he always had trouble grabbing onto it, especially considering this was too much of a regular thing. He finally managed to get a hold of it and tugged on it, and as he opened the door further, he was met with a harsh flood of white light and recoiled, instinctively put an arm up to his eyes. This was what he got for sitting or lying down for long periods of time in the dark, staring at the floor or ceiling when he was unable - or didn’t want - to sleep.

He had a small bathroom cabinet situated above the sink that had mirrors on either door. It was unfortunate enough to be at eye level, and he caught himself as he languidly made his way over to the sink and looked up.

He did a double take. Sure, he knew how he felt and why he often did, but it always set in every time he went to the bathroom. Probably why he didn’t like to go in there - because looking at himself right now was enough to remind him just what exactly he was doing with his life. 

It was most likely the light, but he looked so washed out in the face, dark circles clearly set deeply below his eyes. His hair was absolutely everywhere and kinda greasy - combination of not washing his hair for a few days and the stuff he put in it to give it that smooth style people saw him with. He brushed his fringe back, noticing a number of scars, now healed over, just above his eyebrows, and pulled a hand away, stopping to look at both of them to notice scars across his wrists and the back of his hands and light pink streaks up and down his arms, indicating burns. 

He didn’t know if he was looking at them with some grim acceptance, was simply terribly exhausted, or had grown numb to these things. He seemed so transfixed, even looking up and moving his head around, seeing dark streaks where hands had been on his neck. They were fading, sure, but the people he had encountered never went lightly on him. He knew that. Some even had scratched him deep enough to leave light scarring, and that didn’t take into account the marks by the number of times he’d been held at knifepoint, with a predominant one on the side of his neck, just below his jaw. 

He found it so easy to run his fingers alongside any number of these, as if this was somehow normal. It made him wonder: he did genuinely want to go into something like this, right? He knew there was something else. Being this deep into his job, he could tell there was something underlying. Why was this the way he wanted to help people? Did he have a death wish? He pushed it to the back of his mind. Not now. He knew he had to sleep. Maybe he’d fall deep enough that he didn’t have to think about anything else. If that was possible.

He put his hands on the sink, only realising just how heavily he was leaning against it. So much time he had spent holding his breath and concentrating on everything else but himself. He was far too worried about the safety of others that it was hard enough to relax. Hard enough to forgive himself for letting others get put on the line instead of him. 

He’d lost far too much. That’s why he claimed he was fine being the way he was. Better than losing those he cared about, even if it meant giving himself up or enduring the pain he was used to. The lives of others were paramount, not his. He couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

Though his hands rested against the sides of the sink, he could feel himself shaking. No, no, he had to concentrate on what he was doing. He couldn’t let himself sink back into these feelings. He’d done it enough. He wouldn’t let himself fall apart this way. He’d fall asleep and forget about everything, even for just a night. He would swallow back the rising weight of emotion as well as a sleeping pill. He hated seeing himself cry - it was never something he wanted to get used to. 

That’s why he stayed so busy. As much as he wished he could, being vulnerable was always a risk, no matter what. He’d start showing emotion and then he’d never be able to _stop_. He had appearances to keep up, least of all to his worst enemies. And they were always too many to count.

He brought an unsteady hand to the cabinet, opening one of the doors. Sure, he had the usual stuff - hair gel, toothpaste, mouthwash, aftershave - and then there were the sleeping pills.

That was another secret he so desperately wanted to keep at bay. There was a lot he didn’t want people to know, and kept up a front so people would think he had it all. That he had it together. God, sometimes he wondered just how much he put up a front to convince himself he was fine and knew what he was doing. It was just such a shame that he was human, just like everybody else. 

But he couldn’t disrupt that image. Any form of crack or break, and his enemies would leap upon him to exploit that. Finding out one of the most suave and greatest secret agents had nightmares and sometimes took sleeping pills just to get some rest would be tremendously jarring to know - great secret agents just didn’t _do that_. They were supposed to function well and not deal with things like that. Sometimes he wondered if they did know and were just playing with him. He couldn’t tell, and it really bothered him that he couldn’t.

He took the bottle from the second shelf, and wearily opened it. One was enough. Clearly the recommended dose. He just wanted to sleep, nothing more.

Momentarily, he put it down between the taps and picked up the glass from the side and filled it with water. He put it down next to the bottle, which he picked up again to shake a pill into his hand. He stared at it. He was really doing this. He was doing this, hoping to get a decent rest. He wondered if it would work, but frankly he didn’t know what else to do.

He took the pill, took the glass of water. He swallowed the thing down, going so far as to drink all the water and put the glass back on the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve. He forgot how dehydrated he was. He guessed that happened when he was constantly running around keeping busy, helping people and warding off his enemies. Of course that was why. It couldn’t have been anything else.

He was still leaning heavily against the sink. He pushed himself off of it, gazing back into one of the mirrors. He wondered what lead him to this. All of this. He wanted to leave that open, knowing where that would take him. He knew eventually that the pill would take hold and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to answer that. 

He turned around, managing in fewer times to take hold of and pull the cord to switch off the light. Once again, he was hit with darkness, and frankly, that calmed him more than anything. He didn’t have to think about anything, he didn’t have to contemplate anything in front of him. Out of sight, out of mind. It almost felt like his natural environment.

He repeated the languid steps he had taken towards the sink now towards his bed. More than anything, he decided to change into his pyjamas, a lot more comfortable than how stiff and dirty he felt in his suit. It would be one less reminder.

The effects of the pill started kicking in as he threw the rest of his clothes with his jacket and his sunglasses that still lay on the floor. He would deal with that later. He would forget about everything else for tonight. He hoped he would anyway, as he climbed under the covers, sighing heavily as his head hit the pillow. He pulled the covers further over himself and turned his head around to his alarm clock.

 _3:23_.

 _Ugh_ , he thought, turning back to lie facing the shadowy walls. At least he wasn’t thinking of waking up so early, considering his job was generally quite irregular.

_And the fact that the villains he encountered decided to cause misery whenever they felt like it. They bluntly just didn’t give a shit, especially if it brought him out of the woodwork._

That was one of the last thoughts that crossed his mind as he stared drowsily at the wall opposite. Clearly, they wouldn’t let him forget that easily, even if just for one night.


End file.
